


The Most Important Thing

by yesterday4



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-18
Updated: 2008-07-18
Packaged: 2018-12-09 11:46:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11668497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yesterday4/pseuds/yesterday4
Summary: Wee-chesters.  In the month prior to Sam's birth, Dean is having his doubts about the whole baby gig.  It's up to Mary to ease them.





	The Most Important Thing

**Author's Note:**

> I read about the picture thing on a parenting site ages ago. Which one? I can no longer recall! No harm intended, forgotten site. :) Also, for all of you not born in 1984 or prior, [this](http://www.thisoldtoy.com/L_FP_Set/toy-pages/400-499/435-happyapple.html) is a Happy Apple. Imagine my shock and horror to find it listed on This Old Toy, and also referred to as vintage somewhere else! I did so love my Happy Apple. lol.

Title: The Most Important Thing  
Author: [](http://yesterday4.livejournal.com/profile)[**yesterday4**](http://yesterday4.livejournal.com/)  
Rating: PG-13, for one slip of the s word. ;)  
Disclaimer: Not mine.  
Summary: Wee-chesters. In the month prior to Sam's birth, Dean is having his doubts about the whole baby gig. It's up to Mary to ease them.  
Author's Note: I read about the picture thing on a parenting site ages ago. Which one? I can no longer recall! No harm intended, forgotten site. :) Also, for all of you not born in 1984 or prior, [this](http://www.thisoldtoy.com/L_FP_Set/toy-pages/400-499/435-happyapple.html) is a Happy Apple. Imagine my shock and horror to find it listed on This Old Toy, and also referred to as vintage somewhere else! I did so love my Happy Apple. lol.

****

The Most Important Thing

“I’ve been thinking.”

The announcement comes from the corner of the bedroom, an area so quiet for the last fifteen minutes that Mary was starting to wonder. Biting her bottom lip, she lays the curtain rod, half jammed into the curtains she’d _made_ , thanks ever so, onto her lap and sneaks a peak at her son.

Dean is leaning against the wall, half behind the dresser, with the Happy Apple clenched possessively between his chubby little hands. Mary had been trying to follow all of the good parenting books—she’d been _including_ Dean by having him choose special toys for Baby, knowing he wouldn’t know they were once his. Shitty luck for her, but the little sucker had recognized the red fruit shaped ball from a picture; has since given up all pretences of doing anything other than glaring at her. She offers him a warm smile as a peace offering, but he only puckers his lips and frowns.

“What are you thinking about, sweetie?” she asks, genuinely interested. Dean’s been telling tales lately, normal according to her reading, and his stories are always good for a chuckle.

“Baby,” he says, turning his glare onto her swollen stomach. Happy Apple gets another hug.

Sighing, Mary lays the curtain rod on the floor and scoots backwards awkwardly until she is side by side with Dean. Still glowering, Dean moves Happy Apple out of her reach.

“What about Baby?” She musses up his hair when she asks; is gratified when he leans into her palm for the barest of seconds before remembering his newfound hatred and shying away. And, please God help her, “Are you thinking about what a good big brother you’re going to be?”

Apparently not. Dean’s frown contorts into a look of utter horror. It might be funny, she thinks, if this was someone else’s son, and that someone else was not eight months pregnant. As it is, she’s hot and cranky; her patient smile feels a bit strained.

Dean blurts out his great big thought. “I think Baby is a bad idea. Maybe God will let you return it.”

Mary wants to chuckle, but she smothers the urge and yanks Dean close before he can cringe away. His arm, where her hand falls, is sticky with dried chocolate, and his hair smells like the outdoors. She plants a loud kiss on top of his head, and he relaxes minutely.

“You’re going to like Baby,” she assures him, kissing him again for good measure, “but not as much as Baby is going to like _you_. We’re going to do lots together, the three of us.”

She can tell by the way his nose wrinkles that _the three of us_ is not quite on, and is quick to backtrack.

“We’ll have fun,” she adds, “but then maybe not fun all the time, the three of us. And you know what?”

Dean shrugs passively, still more interested in hugging the toy than her.

“Then Daddy can take Baby, and we’ll hang out, you and me. We’ll play cars for _hours_ , Mommy’s special time with you.”

Dean sends her a suspicious look. “Baby can’t have my cars.”

Mary shakes her head solemnly. “Or your Happy Apple.” She reaches around him and rocks the toy, smiling at the sound of the chime inside.

**

“Maybe you swallowed a seed.”

Mary looks up from doing the dishes, and glances over at Dean, who is helping himself to the watermelon sliced on the table for dessert. He looks more cheerful now, little legs a-swinging under his chair, and she thinks he’s temporarily forgotten about her accidental Happy Apple related betrayal. Watermelon juice coats his chin, and drips down onto his white-- _pink_ , she thinks—shirt.

Cautiously, she inquires, “Swallowed a seed?”

“Yup.” A slurp of juice, and then a real bite. He spits out a seed into his palm to demonstrate; waves it over the table at her. “Daddy says don’t swallow them, or you’ll grow a watermelon in your belly. Maybe there is no Baby. Maybe it's just a watermelon!”

“A watermelon,” repeats Mary, smiling. She’ll have to tell this one to John later, she thinks. He'll laugh at his son's absolute lack of concern, and even perhaps delight, at Mary's ability to carry fruit to term.

Dean nods. “Yup. My friend Sarah at pre-school, she was a watermelon once.”

Mary flicks her soapy hands at the sink and joins Dean at the table. “That so? How’d she get out of that?”

Dean shrugs, and Mary catches a drop of juice on her thumb before it can join the growing pool on his shirt. Wiggles her sticky fingers in his face and tickles him in the sides, making him giggle, before moving forward and catching him in a hug. His little arms can’t reach around her back, but he buries his face into her front and sighs happily.

“Mommy?” he asks.

“What do you want, mister?” she replies, squeezing once, twice, three times so that he laughs and says _oomph_.

“Can we name Baby Melon?”

**

They’re lying on his bed, Dean tucked under the covers in his favourite He-Man pajamas and Mary balancing precariously on the edge. Hands outstretched, his and hers, towards the glowing stars on his ceiling.

Dean knows the story like the back of his hand, but Mary tells it again anyway. Bedtime tradition.

“Daddy stuck those up there when you got your big boy bed,” she whispers. “You loved your crib, but you were too big! You could climb out all on your own, have your own party once Daddy and I went to bed. We found you once in the kitchen, out like a light at the table holding Daddy’s car keys. And Daddy said… what did Daddy say, Dean?”

“‘You are a little man,’” recites Dean, cuddling down into the pillow. Mary smiles and traces his cheek. He makes soft sleepy noises, and her heart feels too full.

“Yes, you are a little man who needs big things! No crib to hold you back!”

“No crib for Happy Apple either.”

Damn you, Happy Apple. Smirking, Mary asks, “Do you know why Daddy bought the stars?”

Dean’s smile is dozy. “Because you hurted your toe.”

“Right! Mommy liked to come in and watch you sleep and tuck you in really special, but you were too big for a nightlight, so Mommy kept stubbing her toes! See what Daddy did? They make a path on your ceiling, all the way from the door to your bed, around your dresser, away from your closet…” She waves her hand to show the progression, but Dean has grown too sleepy to lift his arm with her. She hugs him gently, and tugs up the covers as much as she can with them hindered by her own weight.

“Stars so Mommy can always find you,” she whispers, in conclusion.

There’s silence after that that stretches long enough for her to think Dean is asleep; for her to realize a suddenly pressing urge to visit the bathroom. She can hear the TV through the vents and wonders what John is watching. Wonders how he might feel about giving her a foot massage, and wiggles her toes experimentally.

But then Dean speaks, a low careful whisper. “Will you remember to tuck me in special when I’m sleeping when Baby is here?”

She hears the fear in his voice, and hugs him hard; hopes he’ll hear the truth in hers. “I will always remember, Dean. I love you very much. You’re my special guy, and nothing can change that, silly.”

Dean sighs softly and finds her hand amid the covers. “I love you too, Mommy.”

“I remember the first time I saw you,” she confesses, before launching into that story, voice quiet and soothing until Dean really is asleep, snoring quiet little snuffles that make her chuckle on her way out of his room.

**

Two days later, Mary has the most brilliant idea of her life. She finds Dean at the kitchen table, colouring in pictures of dinosaurs, and beckons for him to follow her.

“Come see this!” she exclaims, rushing—waddling, really—up the stairs to the nursery.

Dean, curious as always, is hot on her heels, although his smile fades a little when he sees their final destination. Mary can’t lift him without a great deal of awkward shifting, but she gestures at the step in front of Baby’s crib and takes Dean’s hand when he climbs up. He gazes into the crib with such trepidation that Mary half thinks he expects to find Baby there.

“What’s hiding?” he asks.

Mary smiles and leans her arms onto the railing. Points down at the end of the inside, the end where she imagines Baby will face. Dean glances down, finds what he’s supposed to, and then glances up at her, confused.

“Mommy, that’s me.”

Mary nods, looking at the photograph taped on the inside of the crib. Her son, last Halloween, done up like a firefighter, squinting and beaming for the picture, all mischievous. It’s Mary’s favourite photo, although she can’t say why exactly.

“Mommy isn’t going to forget you,” she says again, “and neither is Baby. You’re going to be the most important thing to Baby, you know.”

“I am?” Pride creeps into Dean’s voice, reluctant but there.

“Yes. Baby will love you and look up to you, and you’ll always have each other.” She ruffles Dean’s hair. “You’re going to be the first thing Baby sees in the morning and the last thing at night! Pretty important if you ask me.”

“Pretty important,” Dean echoes, and this time the pride is real. Then, with a self-satisfied smile, "I am pretty great."

**

Later that evening, Mary finds the Happy Apple shoved inside the crib underneath Dean’s picture. She smirks at it, pokes it to make it rock, and, with a proud shake of her head, goes downstairs to find John.

Name the baby Melon, indeed!


End file.
